Joy and Laughter
by 002219
Summary: He was, in a display of distortion, forever chasing the dream of justice, and yet, he did not know what it meant to fight for those ideals. She was, in a mighty rush of wind, the one who had sacrificed everything for vengeance, knowing that justice can be only be taken so far. They were Master and Servant, made of steel and lightning. Pairing: Shirou and Genderbent Raiden. Yeah...


(Author's Notes)

In case you missed it, I'll put it in big, bolded letters here:

**THIS RAIDEN IS _GENDERBENT. _Therefore, he is a 'she' in this fanfic.**

**As to how Shirou bagged her...**

**Well, the BAR. 'Nuff said.**

* * *

"Saber."

The woman looked up from the book she'd been reading, raising an eyebrow at the young man. They were both sitting on separate chairs in the living room, with two empty teacups lying on the table.

"Yes, Master?"

It had taken him a while before he managed to gain enough of her respect to be called 'Master'. Even now, his breath lightened at the open show of trust—something he tried not to show on his face, an attempt that which was largely successful.

Of course, had this been anytime before the War, he would never have been able to do so. Now, however, after having spent so much time with the unreadable woman that was his Servant, he'd gotten facial expressions down.

Only time will tell if his skill with the sword can reach the same level…

"What do you think—about what's ahead?"

Saber's eyes narrows in thought, and her legs uncross themselves immediately. Her only visible eye glowed red for a brief moment, which worried him greatly. She would not have done that if she hadn't a bit disturbed by the upcoming fight.

"Hm. Well, I _do _have some experience parrying missile-based projectiles, and I _did _survive some rather mighty forces in my lifetime, so Gilgamesh and Hercules would not be a problem. But how effective I would be in actually countering the others' offensive would depend on you… Shirou."

The mention of his name, without honorific or title, in such a serious moment came as a bit of a surprise, but once again, he kept it hidden well. Long ago, he'd stopped trying to predict how she'd act, for it had become a fruitless effort.

Still, if this was merely the consequence of the night he shared with her in that shed, then he would gladly be blind to what his lover was thinking; he would not have traded that moment for anything.

"—_I love you," _she'd had said. _"I trust you," _she'd continued, and ended with a smile that almost said, _"I've found you."_

Shirou rested his head against the soft surface, smiling fondly at the memory. But this moment didn't last very long, for they had a battle to prepare for.

"Oh, right," he said, prompting his own mind to get back to the discussion they were having, "you told me about that. The 'countering' part, I mean. 'Zandatsu'… was it? Do you think you can explain it, maybe?"

She smiles, proudly. "It is as it says. 'Zandatsu': Cut and Take, if you will. I cut open my enemies' bodies, and rip out their spines."

For a moment, Shirou marveled at how quickly he'd gotten used to her casual mentions of violence.

"Was it really necessary?" he asked, a bit disappointed at such pointless-sounding brutality.

"Yes," she affirms. "Back then, there was no reliable way of healing myself outside of said practice. Since I had to travel light, I couldn't bring large amounts of repair units." Saber pauses, then looks to the side in slight shame. "Oh, who am I kidding? I loved every second of it. I wasn't exactly very noble."

"No, you were certainly not," Shirou bluntly agreed, though Saber's demeanor did not produce any visible change—something he's grown accustomed to, like all her other eccentricities. "Surely, my Servant is no ordinary superhero." He said his last statement with an appraising smile, beaming at the woman. In response, she flushed a little, and the small smile afterwards told him she was pleased at his acceptance of her bloodthirstier side.

Saber would always have a special place in his heart, regardless of whether or not she follows his beliefs, and that proved to be the same reason why he doesn't mind her past deeds and actions.

"But," she continues her explanation, "in the end, Zandatsu is simply an extension of my fighting style. You see—by the time I took up a sword, it was in a time where most use guns and explosives to fight. I used no particular technique, for it was all self-taught. And though an enemy of mine boasts an advantage, with his knowledge in the art of the blade—for he was properly taught, mind you—I had my own unique skill in battle.

"My allies call it 'Blade Mode', but really, it's simply a very… ah, how do I put it—a very quick reaction time. It all began when my adoptive father forced me through an artificial reality, teaching me how it felt to kill—then continuously repeating it, numbing my moral sense. Then he took me out to the field, whereupon my enemies are stronger, more vicious, and I had to adjust accordingly. Therefore, by then, it was not a matter of blows, but a matter of quick draws and slashes—blinding them, paralyzing them, then finishing them off."

Shirou stared blankly, before asking, "Meaning…?"

"I can swing very quickly, very accurately. Diagonal, horizontal, vertical, to the arm, leg, head, weapon, it did not matter; I have had experience with all this."

He let out an 'ah' of understanding, before placing a hand on his chin. By this point, Saber had moved to sit beside him, which was a bit awkward, considering their age and size difference, yet still oddly relaxing. He took a moment to admire her beauty, something he'd done many times before, and something he might never tire of doing.

Saber truly was beautiful. He'd once asked whether or not she'd always looked like that before she became partly machine, and was answered with an affirmative. That thought, accidentally, led to questions on her sex life, though thankfully she punished him not with castration, but instead a cold shoulder.

The uncommonly reasonable response had restored his faith in humanity, for it showed that not all females act as though they were mightier and holier than men. An attitude which, unfortunately, he found himself a constant victim of.

Saber, noticing the sudden lull in conversation (and not noticing that it was a result of her moving seats), came up with a new topic to talk about.

"How is your arm, Shirou?" she asked, politely and delicately, as though he could blow a gasket if handled improperly. "Has the… stiffness faded away yet?"

As though in an unspoken agreement, the lovers gave a furtive glance to the boy's left arm—or, at least, what is now his arm. The limb was once the property of a certain red, nameless knight, but that did not need be said, as of this moment.

Shaking his head, he sighed, and replied, "No. At least—not yet. Do you have an idea on how to speed up the synchronization?"

She lifted a hand to her chin, and diverted her eyes to the ceiling. After a moment's pause, she gave a thin smile. "Push-ups."

"Push-ups?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly to the left.

"Push-ups," she reaffirms, her smile never leaving her face.

* * *

"It's almost time." After an evening workout (which quickly devolved into a make-out session, for 'mana-recharging' purposes, or so Shirou tells himself), the two had left the house, and found themselves greeted with the dark morning sky.

Humming lightly, Saber—or Raiden, as she was once named in her living days—smoothed over the edges of her yellow coat and turned to her Master. "Tell me," she says, "do you regret this past month?"

Shirou closed his eyes, and thought. All those memories, from the first fateful night, to the day he saw her carve up a twelve-life Berserker with nothing but her red sword—("it used to be someone else's sword," she'd finally admitted when he pried)—, to the violent, sociopathic outbursts she devolved into upon watching Lancer stab innocent children (willingly or not, she accepted no excuses from him), and finally, to all the precious, playful, and teasing interactions she would engage with him.

Upon retrospect, it _was _quite the month.

"Had it been under different circumstances," he began, then paused, before continuing, "then yes, I think I would. But as things are, I can't help but believe that my inclusion helped save more lives than my hypothetical absence would."

Saber let out a small, playful scoff—as evidenced by the twitch of her mouth—and bent over slightly. "Tut, tut," she told him, "you must have more faith in others. Although, I suppose I never did have much experience with magi, so I can't exactly draw from experience, eh?"

"Uh-huh," he hums, even as he nods in an affirmative. "The only magi I know are hopelessly arrogant," Rin Tohsaka, "start out rather affably jerky, but later became controlled by primal, lustful impulses," Shinji Matou, "never ventures outside their comfort zone," Sakura Matou, "and are otherwise homicidally obsessed with immortality." Zouken Matou. "Well, there is my father, but I heard he was a very unconventional magus, so I can't group him together with the others I know of."

"Why, that's a terribly colorful description of your former friends, Shirou. Excepting the final entry, for obvious reasons."

"I'm a colorful person: but enough with the memories. They're all dead now—"

"—by your hand, I must add."

"… … Yes. By my hand. And many more will follow—yet even so…" He gave a furtive glance towards her at this point; "…standing together, we'll continue forging steel, on our hill of swords."

And with a teasing grin, she concludes,

"Truly, you are a remarkable man, Master."

* * *

A bluish-green light illuminated the cavern, and that was what they both noticed foremost the moment they entered.

"This will be the second time we're going through this," Shirou noted, feeling, for all intents and purposes, rather sleepy at the early journey. "Hopefully, we were wrong, and the Altered Servants have disappeared by now."

"Hm. Unlikely. Magical sources like your late… friend," though said title is a bit of a stretch, in his ears, "tend to leave a rather lasting mark, at least for a few days afterwards. Nothing that ordinary humans can notice, of course, but even amateur magi can likely spot the area of effect from miles away."

He bit his lip, a whiny complaint almost escaping his mouth, and settled for a silent sigh instead. He moved a hand to the scabbard on his left hip, and asked, "Are you sure you wouldn't need your sword for this? There are an awful lot of Alters to defeat, you know."

By this point of time, he'd had learned to suppress any and all emotional urges to recklessly protect his Servant, even when faced with such incredible numbers of overwhelming force. As Saber had put it, "There is no greater shame that can befall a Servant, than the death of its Master." And besides, he'd gone through great lengths to earn his place as not just her partner, but also as her Master.

He may have a disposition towards anything done for self-gain, but even he would not wish to trample on the beautiful, delicate, and fragile bond they shared.

Their footsteps hardly made a noise—at least, when you consider that the sound would echo through the tunnel. And the darkness continued to retreat, even as lightning started to course through Saber's body.

"Yes," she confirms for him, "I'm sure. Most of the enemies I will be fighting wear armor. I'd hardly need this particular sword for that; instead, I'll use a Kabutowari-style sword, named Armor Breaker for simplicity's sake, to break their defense and chop them to pieces—my specialty, really."

* * *

They'd split up soon after; Saber would hold the Altered Servants back, while Shirou continued forwards to finish off the War—for good, this time.

Only…

"Why, I did not expect to see you here, Emiya-kun."

…it seems there will be complications.

The clearing he faced was wide, but obviously unstable. Cracks run across the ground, and pebbles crumble and fall away. The sky glowed dark purple, and, looming before him, was a disgusting, writhing mass of a fleshy tower.

But perhaps, the most interesting object in the scene would be the pig-tailed magus standing, rather proudly and stoically, with the grace and elegance of nobility, five meters in front of him.

"Tohsaka," Shirou acknowledges. "I thought I killed you already. Hm, I suppose you always were a bit slippery. No matter. Step aside, and I will let you go—I have no quarrel with you."

Rin smirked, and flicked some of her hair away from her face. "I have no quarrel with you, either. But, I think we both know that I cannot grant you your request. I have a wish that needs fulfilling. A sister to bring back."

"There raise not the dead, Tohsaka." His tone held a bit of disappointment, but no outright hostility. "Did Kirei not teach you? It is only by God's will that they can live anew—no one and nothing else's."

"Perhaps," Rin admits, shrugging without the slightest loss of dignity. "But, you understand, don't you? Even if it is wrong, even if it is suicidal—even if no one else stands with you, as long as you're happy, you'd do anything. Is that not your stand towards your ideals?"

Shirou rested a hand on his scabbard, but made no move to fight. "At one point, it was," he admitted. "But I learned that no amount of selfish helping would ever bring you happiness. Satisfaction, perhaps. A clear conscience, maybe. But never happiness—at least, not for me."

The red-haired boy looked out into the slowly rising sun. "Someone told me this—a week ago, I think—'Justice is not something to fulfill yourself with, and neither is it something you use to excuse your actions. Justice is an existing law you place your faith in, an order that you believe is unchangeable.'

"'Yet, in a paradox, Justice changes from man to man, from age to age, and from generation to generation. It is subjective, easily colored. And when you meet more and more of Justice, you also change the meaning of your own.

"'It is fickle, it fluctuates, it continuously improves upon itself. And so, we try to immortalize our own justice, meet and impress as many people as we can, so that our legacy can live, even after our lives end.'

"Tohsaka. If I'd wanted to be happy, I would spare you, and allow you to do as you please, because you are a dear friend of mine, and I've had fun being your acquaintance. And I could very well do so, because that is my personal justice.

"However—I've met someone I share a united meaning of justice with, and here I think you'd agree with me." Shirou smiles, bitterly, sadly, yet determinedly, and quite possibly the last he'd ever give to the girl. "A man would go to great lengths for those he cares about. Love makes the world go 'round—and unfortunately, neither of us fancy the deaths of countless innocents."

Silence stretched for a few moments, before it was broken by Rin's chuckle.

"Well, you've certainly learned to write your own speeches," she jokes, but a raise of her hand, in her usual bullet-shooting stance, gave a much clearer message than her words. "But still. A Holy Grail is an artifact blessed by God, no? If so, then…"

She knew that she was in self-denial. It was all a lie, and her pull towards insanity only grew. But if she wins this fight—if she gets her sister back… then she can put her unease to rest.

He pulled out his sword, ready for battle.

"It had been an enjoyable past month… Rin. Prove to me your determination."

Her hands glowed, prepared to fire.

"Ha. Has anyone ever told you that you're quite the charmer? Regardless—show me, _your so-called justice_!"

* * *

_Beauty is in the eye of its beholder. But really, it is more than just beauty that changes with the individual. Value changes as well. And with value, also changes individual ideals._

_Therefore. _

_The ideals of a broken man… are, by default, similarly broken._

* * *

Saber had never much cared for the laws of magic. Ranks, properties, origins, forms, natural affinities—these are much too complicated for her way of life.

She did not care if, by technicality, her weapon could not penetrate a Servants' armor. If it did not break the first time, then she'd hit it again, until her visor indicates its atomic structures has weakened enough and she can generate a high-frequency slash to rip apart the object they make up.

As a 'Heroic Spirit', she was a tad bit lacking. Even Caster-class Servants can land solid hits on her, because she's never actually faced supernatural forces in her lifetime. The preset defense against magic that the Saber class grants her are really the only thing that kept her alive against such opponents.

However, when it comes to physical strength…

Saber chuckled, even as her sword ripped apart Lancer's twisted body.

Even _Berserker _hadn't been able to deal that much damage to her. The poor fool should've worn more armor, if only to prolong the _game_ she'd played with him.

"Two down," she mutters, remembering that she'd already killed Caster a few minutes ago. Regardless of her weakness to magic, a cave is really not a good place to face the mighty Jack the Ripper herself. Caster hadn't worn armor, either, and with that, her fate was sealed before the fight even began. "Four more to go."

A moment later, she ducked her head down, narrowly missing Rider's oversized chained nail. Then, an onslaught of Noble Phantasms started raining down, and it took all of her force and effort to cut them all down.

"Oh, son of a— They're double-teaming me!"

True enough, the enraged visage of Gilgamesh, in all its enjoyable torment, loomed over her. "Mongrel-" he'd started to shout, but before he could begin ranting, Saber had deactivated her pain inhibitors and released the psychopath within.

"Mongrel?" she interrupted with a smirk, before laughing gleefully, her visor giving the voice a push that caused it to echo through the tunnels.

"Why, that's just being nasty!"

In the blink of an eye, she blurred into existence in front of him. Her target was, a bit obviously, his neck—after all, these 'Servants' seem to be unintelligent enough to forget to wear helmets. And, they always seem to forget, a Servant's core lies on two places: the heart and the head.

In another blink, the King of Heroes was deader than disco.

"Don't be ashamed," she taunted as she looked into his dumbfounded eyes, echoing what one of her enemies once told her. "It's just _nature_, following its _course_."

* * *

_They'd once told her, "You're like us, after all." And she'd responded, "Why, that's just nasty!"_

_She didn't much care that she was insane, nor did she care that she reveled in her bloody carnage._

_She did not let personal moral conflicts get in the way of her goal, and she would push aside all her hesitations and doubts about the sacrifices she's had to endure._

_For she was a woman on a mission. Just her, and her sword; the child soldier fighting for the children._

_That was all that mattered at the time._

* * *

_He was naïve, innocent, and gentle, yet without a second thought, he'd thrown himself into the middle of the crossfire._

_She was a psychopath, insane, vicious, yet purposeful, a woman who had waged a one-man war against the greatest army on earth._

_He'd give up everything he held in the name of justice._

_She'd forgotten what it meant to fight for a noble cause._

_But when these two met—_

* * *

Rin had never stood a chance.

Truthfully, she fared far better than most would have, and in an impressive show of determination, she managed to knock Shirou's sword away from him.

Shame that she did not take into account Archer's (admittedly) overpowered arm.

The moment he uttered the word, "Trace, on," the battle was finished. And, true enough; a torrent of steely destruction came raining down, surrounded by a calming blue glow.

"—ah—"

She gasped, and her dry throat soon croaked out a small chuckle.

"—this feels-"

The red spear descends towards her heart.

"—nostalgic."

* * *

Some people say that, when used repetitively, swords grow their own souls. Preferences, hesitation, fear; the owner's will is carried on by his or her sword.

Olga Gurlukovich, the original owner of this particular sword, did not serve in active duty for a very long time alongside it. But, as for the person to whom she had entrusted it to—that is another matter entirely.

Raiden had declared that her sword was a tool of justice. 'Not used in anger, not used in vengeance.' And her sword took up her wish—it becomes not a mere weapon, but a means to an end.

When Shirou first expressed his interest over her sword, she had—politely, all things considered—scolded him for prying into someone else's past. Of course, this demand of privacy would later be nullified by the dream sequences Masters and Servants experience, but it was the thought that counted, and he'd kept his questions to himself, regardless.

(It wasn't until he'd risked life and limb by using himself as a meat-shield against Assassin that she'd started to open up, and, eventually, allow him to trace her sword, but that's a personal secret between the two—"Remember that time I saved your life?" became his last resort whenever Saber refuses to be cooperative.)

Saber had entrusted her sword to her Master. It was no longer her excuse, no longer her tool—it became _his _means to _his _ends, because, as she put it—"No one but my Master has the _capacity _to truly fight for justice."

And so, it rests in his personal Blade Works (not Unlimited, for his perception of justice is quite different from Archer's.) It was his greatest and most treasured possession, the true embodiment of everything he ever wished for.

The wind that flowed behind him stopped blowing for a moment. He pauses, then smiled.

"I always did wonder how you managed to walk so silently," he commented, and the limping female form stopped by his right. Pouting slightly, she slung a hand around his neck, using him as a support. "And here, right to the end, I still haven't found the answer."

Saber smiled, and gently laid his arms over her own. "Help me with this last attack," she says, "and I will tell you." Chips and sparks and blood littered her body, and for the first time in his life, she actually looked _vulnerable._

Well, he thought, it was a good thing he still had ten fully charged Circuits in his/Archer's left arm, then.

"Trace, on."

The sword came to life in their hands.

"Try to keep up… Master Shirou."

Their grips tighten.

"All nanomachines, activated. Pain inhibitors, released. High-frequency capabilities, on."

A red glow covered the Servant.

"Remember this. This is the proof of our bond. This is the proof of my existence. This is my legacy."

She closed her eyes, and swung.

* * *

She wakes up to the sound of raging fires.

Next, there was the groan of metal being torn to shreds, and finally, a thump that indicated her enemy's arrival.

"Seems you survived, Jack," Armstrong notes, offering a hand. Raiden took it, nodding in gratitude—and then pushed herself off him, coming to a stop three meters away.

"So it seems," she agreed, and drew her sword. "Now, where were we?"

"Huh." If Armstrong was disappointed, he didn't show it. In fact, he seemed almost… enthusiastic, in his own special way. Then he picked up a chunk of debris, and threw the burning wreckage. Yet, neither side really expected her to die by a mere piece of machinery.

One swing.

Another debris was flung in quick succession.

Two swings.

Then, Armstrong himself flew at her, ready to punch.

Three swings.

It hit his head, sending him flying into a burning pile of metal.

"Hmm," Raiden mutters to herself. "It seems, Olga's sword is strong enough to withstand the punishment. Did she have it crafted by a Japanese blacksmith…?"

Then she noticed a slight change in the hilt. There was an engraving that wasn't there before.

"_Saber,"_ it said.

She smiled.

"That devious Master of mine…"

Breaking her out of her reverie, the pile of metal exploded outwards, revealing a roaring Steven Armstrong. He grinned, obviously enjoying this battle like no other. And, charging like a bull, he shouted,

"This is the greatest fight I've ever had!"

* * *

He woke up to the sound of gunshots.

Next, there was screaming, loud and desperate, and finally, utter silence, signifying the screamer's death.

"Hey, look. There's still one alive," a soldier noted, prodding a gun at him. Shirou simply stared forward, meeting the glare head-on. He stood up, with his arms held high—and the threatening man seemed rather pleased.

Then, he whispers,

"Trace, on."

One sword.

The poor man's arm went flying, and he grunted in surprise.

One halberd.

His legs gave way beneath him—quite possibly because it's chopped off—and he began to scream in horror.

One spear.

It thrust forward, piercing his heart.

"Tch," Shirou scowled at the carnage. "So much needless violence… I wonder why the first and second attacks didn't stop him?"

He looks around him, noting with a resigned amusement that the man's colleagues seem to have cornered him, from all sides.

He remembered such a moment from Saber's memories. These are men forced to kill, forced to sell their bodies to World Marshal.

She hadn't cared then. But she'd regretted it afterwards, even going so far as to devote her soul to the world to save in the afterlife what she couldn't before.

So he would care. He would pray for forgiveness after this is over. But for now:

It was time to put an end to their misery.

* * *

It took a lot of explaining. A lot of searching. A lot of studying, guessing, and planning.

She's had to call in favors from Maverick, and found herself re-enlisting for cyborg duty. But it was worth it, in the end.

Because, she realized, her Master was one brilliant schemer.

As she adjusted her Mariachi uniform, she looked to the distance, where, surely again, they'll meet.

* * *

It took a lot of waiting. A lot of defending. A lot of killing, fighting, and betraying.

He's had to be used as a scapegoat, a pawn, a tool, for the sake of countless faceless strangers. But it was worth it, in the end.

Because, now, after twenty-something years of patience, he's finally reached her.

As he adjusted the tie of his suit, he looked to the door of his forge, where surely, soon, she would arrive—and, surely, with two knocks, no more or less, and a mockingly polite, "Afternoon, good sir," she would smile, and—

* * *

"Saber."

The woman looked up from the book she'd been reading, raising an eyebrow at the young man. She'd had waited in the sofa of the waiting room, a place where his clients often waited to order and/or retrieve their swords out of him.

"Yes, Master?"

It had taken him a while before he managed to figure out that she wouldn't be the first to greet him, for of course, it was only courtesy that the gentleman greet the lady. Quite classy, he'd thought, for a woman who held such a free spirit.

Of course, had this been anytime before the War Economy, he would never have been able to show the manners he was currently—in an act of vanity—showing off to his lover. Now, however—with some help from Issei, the current head monk of Ryuudou Temple, he'd finally become the closest he could ever get to being a responsible man.

Only time will tell if his gentle manner will change once more, as it had, so long ago…

"What do you think—about what's ahead?"

Saber's eyes narrows in thought, and her legs uncross themselves immediately. Her only visible eye glowed red for a brief moment, which worried him greatly. She would not have done that if she hadn't a bit disturbed by their currently formless future.

"Hm. I _do _have a job, if that's what you were wondering. I'd have to travel all over the world—protecting clients and such. But do not worry; regardless of what happens economically and financially, in my life, the one with utmost priority, is you… Shirou."

The mention of his name, without honorific or title, for the first time in such a long while, came as a bit of a shock, but impressively, he kept it hidden well. Long ago, he'd stopped trying to predict how she'd act the moment they met again, for it would be a fruitless effort.

Still, if this was merely the consequence of the month he shared with her in that silent, peaceful town, then he would gladly be forever blind to what his lover was thinking; he would not have traded those moments for anything.

"—I love you."

Shirou smiled fondly at his own words. And, as she threw the same words right back at him, they savored this moment, these seemingly eternal smiles, knowing that they've reached their insurmountable joy.

"Oh, right, would you like some tea? Personally, I think I have quite the selection…"

She smiles, anxiously, almost childishly. "For auld lang syne, eh, Shirou?"

For a moment, Shirou marveled at how quickly he'd gotten used to her new, casual, and sudden bouts of old-fashioned dialogue.

* * *

Dedicated to Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance, quite possibly the best hack n' slash game in the history of video gaming.

And yes, Revengeance is an actual word. An archaic one, too. I think it's been around since 1950 or so.


End file.
